It had been several days since the attack at Owena’s, each fairly quiet for the most part, all except for the day after. In the warmth and calm of her own bedroom, Sareva stood bare with a small mirror in hand, examining her still healing bruises. The lower part of her ribcage was doing better, having faded from the purplish tone to a sickly green and yellow. It wasn’t quite so tender to the touch as it had been the day after. Her fingers gently probed the skin there and on up the other few tender points up her chest to her clavicle, following them with the mirror, feeling and seeing where the bruising of being crushed against a pillar ended just above her breasts.
Setting the mirror on her side table she sighed. At least most of it wasn’t visible, though she made sure to keep her hair down when out to hide her back. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew it had to be more extensive, having received punishment both from the pillar and being slammed to the floor. She twisted slowly, testing her range of movement, enough to see a splotch on her skin behind her pelvis, then slowly back the other way.
The first day following the intrusion, she hadn’t been so careful. Waking up in a tent, disoriented, aching, clutching a pair of scissors to her chest, and not remembering where she was or even how she got there. Immediately, she had twisted sharply to try to reorient herself only to immediately regret it as pain shot up her spine and through her torso. She clenched her teeth, hissing and breathing hard with her eyes squeezed shut while leaning on one arm until the moment passed. She gradually relaxed her muscles that had tightened to prevent any further damage, untwisting herself at her hips. Her dress was still on her, though there was a tear in the left shoulder, and it was generally dirtier. Laying back down, she simply breathed trying to recall how she had gotten in this situation. The attack she remembered. What had she done after that? Owena’s house.
She lifted up the pair of scissors. They weren’t her own; they must have come from there. The logical thing to do would have been to borrow one of her cooking knives, but of course, she had looked for the scissors. Especially in that state, of course she would have.
Sareva closed her eyes again. She was walking. How far? And there was a voice, one she recognized, but only vaguely. Fear again, then relief. A group of people with several fires and many tents. A blanket on her shoulders and a warm bowl in her hands. Then darkness and nothing.
It took rolling over on her stomach, a low groan escaping her, to be able to lift one of the tent flaps to see where she was. She didn’t recognize the area, but she did recognize the man standing at the edge of the clearing with his gaze turned outward. Or, at least, she hadn’t seen much of his back before, but after she had met Aeruthuil and later mended his jacket, she at least recognized the garment and the hair.
He was kind and gentle, if somewhat unused to most interaction. He had walked her all the way to Bree when she needed to tell the Watchers about what happened, and even let her borrow his cloak to enter the town, ashamed as she was at the state of herself. Though, returning it had been somewhat of an ordeal, with one of his “hunter” friends giving her quite a startle on her way back to the camp and exacerbating her already tender flesh. She shouldn’t have taken her irritation out on Aeruthuil, even if he did appear to be the man’s superior, but she had, and regretted that, for he never once raised his voice above beyond what it had been at his initial concern for her wellbeing. But she needed to go home, and they parted on fair terms.
Sareva picked up a loose dress from where she’d laid it on the bed. Home was comfortable, but even here, behind doors and locks, she knew there was no such thing as “safe.” She had never been under the illusion that anything was ever safe. Well, not never. Carefully, she slid the dress up her arms and over her head. No doubt if he wanted, that man could break down her door to return the scissors she had embedded in his side and with interest on top. But there was nothing she could do about that, so she managed as best she could. The shop would be closed for a few days, she would keep her door locked, and sometimes when one of her neighbors was out gardening, she would go out and lie down in the stream, letting the cold water wash numb the surface of her skin.
Out in the main room, the kettle started to whistle on the fire. She took her time on her way, though it squealed with steam. But she had already set everything out beforehand, all lined up as she poured the boiling water into the pot. Next came the tea, sprinkled in with the usual amount. After that, the small earthen jar of dried blueberries she so often added. She stared at them, wrinkled dark balls with their sweet aroma. Her face was like a slab of stone. Capping the jar, she put it away; she didn’t need or want them this time.
